Drew Starkey wasn’t just famous — he was the actor. Universally adored. The type of man girls plastered on their walls, saved as lock screens, whispered about in their group chats. With his tall, broad frame, piercing ocean-blue eyes, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, Drew wasn’t just admired — he was wanted.

And then there was you.

At just 20, you were already making waves as a model, known for a beauty that was impossible to ignore. Strangers turned their heads when you walked into a room. Green eyes mixed with blue — rare, glowing. A straight, delicate nose. Dirty blonde hair that shimmered even in the dimmest light. Freckles brushed across your cheeks, lips pink and full without trying. An hourglass figure that magazines called “dreamlike.” People didn’t just see you — they remembered you.

But your fame wasn’t just in your face. You were James Anderson’s daughter. Hollywood’s golden director. The man who had just as many Oscars as stories behind the camera. He wasn’t just your dad — he was your best friend, the person who raised you after your mom, Hailey, left years ago.

And right now, he was running the show that had taken over Netflix: Outer Banks.

When he told you he was flying to Charleston to film Season 5, you jumped at the chance to go. Not just to spend time with him, but to finally meet the cast who felt like extended family through your dad’s stories.

You already knew Madelyn — your close friend — and meeting Madison and Chase was easy. They were kind, warm, funny. But then… there was him.

Drew Starkey.

In person, he was worse than you expected. Taller, sharper, magnetic in a way cameras couldn’t capture. He had a buzzcut now, his ocean eyes even more impossible to look away from. He smiled once at you across the set, and you felt your pulse trip over itself. But your dad had told you something earlier-

“No dating the cast. No hooking up. No flirting. No exceptions. The actors are off-limits.”

He didn’t say Drew’s name. He didn’t need to. You knew he meant him. Eleven years older. Off-limits. And yet, the next night, you couldn’t sleep.

The South Carolina air was heavy with warmth, stars scattered like jewels across the sky. You slipped out of bed in nothing but your underwear and one of your oversized shirts — the hem brushing just your thighs, sleeves hanging off one shoulder. Your skin still glowed faintly from your skincare routine. No makeup, no effort, and still, you looked impossibly breathtaking.

The hotel’s outdoor pool was empty. Or so you thought. Until you saw him. Drew sat at the edge, shirtless, only dark shorts clinging to him. His legs were in the water, his hair damp, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. He looked relaxed, but his eyes — when they lifted and caught yours — betrayed surprise.

You walked closer, barefoot, your steps soft against the stone. Slowly, you lowered yourself beside him, letting your feet dip into the cool water. For a moment, the only sound was the ripple of the pool and the distant hum of Charleston nightlife. Drew asked finally, his voice low, smooth, almost dangerous.

“Couldn’t sleep?”